Gone

Upon a coffee table as utilitarian as a cardboard box,
Morning Glory protrudes from a 1915 Coca Cola bottle.
Damning headlines are as moist as the President’s eyes.
An abandoned chess match dominates the kitchen bench.
The kettle is hotter than lava.
and her pillow still warm.
There’s puddles in the potplants.
The surveillance swarm can’t tell the eight ball
from the white.
Airport, bus terminal, taxi stand, car rental agency?
Which drain could could the whistleblower be navigating
like an Einsteinian rat?
Which forest swamp might she be drifting through
on a camouflaged barge?
Nobody know which escape roulette to vet.

The Fundamentalist

There’s no time to suspect others are correct,
you’ve got common sense shrapnel to deflect
and blind assumption fuelled attacks to direct.

Sharing lies beyond your comprehension,
you reside in the greed is good dimension.

According to your brain dead investigation,
democracy is lube for corporate domination.

Market forces, they’re your notion of divinity,
Rupert, Wall Street and cash are your trinity.

There’s no time to suspect others are correct.
you’ve got common sense shrapnel to deflect
and blind assumption fuelled attacks to direct.

You are a moron we can’t help but resent,
you live to misinterpret and misrepresent.

Free Assange

For further information, paste the following link into a search engine.

http://www.strategic-culture.org/news/2019/09/24/theyre-murdering-my-son-julian-assanges-father-tells-of-pain-and-anguish

If you’re an Australian citizen, I implore you to write to our Prime Minister, the Minister for Foreign Affairs and your local MP, to urge the Australian Government to negotiate on behalf of journalist/publisher/human rights activist Julian Assange. If you’re a British or American citizen, please familiarise yourself with Julian Assange’s case, if you haven’t already, and politely demand justice from your government.  

Unless publishing the facts about corporate corruption, government corruption and war crimes is a crime, Julian Assange is an innocent man and should be released from Belmarsh prison immediately. The following is a slightly edited version of my email to Senator Marise Payne, the Australian Minister for Foreign Affairs. Perhaps you and your friends can improve upon my effort with letters of your own.


Dear Senator Payne

As you know, Australian journalist/publisher Julian Assange has been wrongfully imprisoned in the U.K, at the behest of the American government, for his response to the public’s right to know the truth about government corruption and war crimes. The U.S government apparently does not believe in the public’s right to know the truth about the appalling behaviour of the U.S military towards civilians etc.

If the Australian Government doesn’t strongly oppose the wrongful imprisonment and unjust treatment of Julian Assange, that will leave the public with the impression they support the cover up of war crimes and corruption. Senator, surely you don’t want Australian voters to think that about a government you are an integral part of.

If, on the other hand, the Australian Government proves it’s willing to negotiate on behalf of a courageous journalist/publisher/human rights activist like Julian Assange, that will help to restore confidence in Australian democracy. Obviously the freedom of the press and listening to the wishes of voters are vitally important democratic principles. As you presumably are aware, hundreds of thousands of Australian Assange supporters are monitoring this situation and their numbers continue to grow.

If Julian Assange’s extradition hearing is inevitable, he should at least have adequate access to his lawyers, the necessary legal documents, an effective computer, his friends, and nutritious food and quality healthcare until this nightmarish saga ends. I am of course among the many who would love to see the Australian Liberal Government do all that is humanly possible to bring that about.

 
* Paradoxically Liberal means conservative in the case of the Australian Liberal Party. They’re liberal from the perspective of deregulation for corporations etc.

* wikileaks.org contains a treasure trove of information about corporate corruption, government corruption and war crimes in the form of introductory articles, original documents and videos. If you would like to support Wikileaks, the not for profit organization founded by Julian Assange and some of his friends and associates, you can do so via wikileaks.shop or au.wikileaks.shop

Toff Central

Randolph Sultan
played the ultimate alpha Romeo
in his Alfa Romeo.
In reality, choosy escorts become extinct
whenever Randolph enters the precinct.
At a red light,
a homeless teen begged for lunch.
“You da man”
Randolph said to his pocket mirror
as he lit a one hundred dollar bill
with a Gurkha Black Dragon cigar.
“Please sir” the girl persisted.
“Get a job” Sultan taunted as he flaunted.
“Could you buy me a suit for an interview”
the gaunt, trembling girl begged.
“There’s one in the opp shop window,
out of my sight dole bludging parasite!”
Sultan crash tackled her,
as she sprinted from the servo
with stolen sanitary napkins.
He bought himself a gold law enforcement medallion.
His celebratory cocktail
cost more than three days of welfare.
Randolph drove his Maserati to church,
to ask God to imbue the poor
with his famous work ethic.
“If they have a go they’ll get a go,”
his pastor agreed.

The Relaxation Therapist

Felicity’s roller coaster of high distinctions and zeros
killed her status obsessed parents.
She kept their Canberra crash pads.
Youth Off the Streets turned their mansions
into schools for troubled teens.

The funeral attendees
were the who’s who of sycophantic scum;
vultures stalking the wounded wren of publicity,
that’s how they imagined Felicity.
Maximum damage was their motto.
“No Prime Minister,
I won’t be donating to your campaign,”
Felicity’s words echoed off the valley
like a bomb blast.

A series of cartwheels and backflips,
across her sacreligious parents graves,
caught the attention of vampire knaves.
Hideous headlines of stenographer hordes
kicked off the festival of hate.
Felicity scored from the kick off.
Propaganda outlets ignored the siren.
“No comment” the bright eyed mantra weaver repeated,
as reporter tsunamis swept her away.
Sunglasses were her curtains.
Her autobiographical mythbusting blog reached millions
She’d became a tick on the eyeball of tabloid hacks.

Someone’s controversial ANZAC Day views
turned Felicity’s Hawaiian surf into a still pond.
Tube riding sharks forgot she existed.
YouTube viewers became off camera characters
in  her therapeutic plays.
She caresses their ears with sweet mantras,
as her double belly dances
and her triple plays the flute.
Four blends herbs and spices
as passionately as Van Gogh mixed his palette.
Five and six are synchronized swimmers
in a Utopian sandstone pool.
Seven and eight are tailored suit clad heavies,
patrolling the perimeter.
The man behind the pool cue is you.
Sink the black and number eight
will fulfil your need
to knead her athletic flesh.

Last week Felicity played Himalayan singing bowls
in a crystal cave.
Tomorrow she’s a hypnotist in the Garden of Eden,
sharing tree of knowledge pie.
Then she’s Hitler’s assasin
posing as a burlesque comedian.

Felicity’s guitar chords are the umbilical cords,
connecting her fans
to their spiritual space stations.

The Tinfoil Hat Apocalypse

Rabbit hole plunging zombies,
circle Greta Thunberg like tiger sharks in tinfoil hats.

If you want to know NASA’s position,
in the climate change war of attrition,
don’t ask NASA!
And be sure to consult M.I.T
via a random YouTuber
who gave himself a degree.

Rabbit hole plunging zombies circle Greta Thunberg,
like tiger sharks in tinfoil hats.

In the pursuit of knowledge
they are athritic amblers,
bursts of reason richochet
off those rabid ramblers,
like debt collectors bouncing
from Herculean gamblers.

Greta can’t be their heroine
while fiction is their heroin.

The Lemming Shepherds

The shrieking gale slowed to a dying breeze.
Eastern rosellas, galahs and gang gangs
flocked to distant billabongs.
Canvas tents shieled elderly tourists
from the February oven.

In the village,
dog walkers paused on grassy islands.
Three year old Ben thought the’d tamed the kangaroos,
who’d emerged from the forest
to graze in the twilight.
“Are they circus kangaroos” he wondered
as they slipped through a barbed wire fence unscathed.
He didn’t ask Uncle Bertie,
who was famous for staring at half empty bottles
as though they were encyclopaedia sets.

“Come on Aussie come on”,
cricket ad crowds chanted,
on Bertie’s black and white TV.
Patriotism was a virtue
long before Ben learned the word,
until it was as vacuous as the evasive waffle
of propaganda spruiking Prime Ministers.

In the ensuing years:
there were lakes to kiak,
beaches to explore,
shells to collect
and missions to Endor to direct.
The bushland was an Ewok planet one day
and steaming jungles
of World War Two Papua New Guinea the next.
Paddocks were every sporting arena,
from the Roman colosseum to Wimbledon.
The village was more parallel universes
than the second hand bookstore
could cram into its science fiction shelves.

Today, the forest is scarred with golf courses
and lakefront mansions
as uninspiring as toilet blocks.
The serenity has been murdered
by go karts, trail bikes and jet skis
as numerous as the goannas once were.

On the towering new council chambers
“The Lemming Shepherds”
was sprayed with Rembrandt precision.
That strange merger of skeletons and tree trunks,
haunted environmentalists and property developers alike.
Following the mayor’s enraged editorial,
his weekender was marred with the same phrase.
Coffins full of wallaby bones,
were left on his front lawn.
His dreams were invaded
by a figure in a lizard skin mask,
whose rage was as tangible as a vat of acid.
Sleeping pills could not banish him.
Closing the new driving range
and nurturing the land, until the forest reclaimed it,
hardly softened the fury in his weaponised eyes.
Donating his assets to environmental activists,
was as ineffective as resigning.
A best selling autobiography
entitled Confessions of an Environmental Vandal,
dissolved the nightmares.

Limbo

Just when you think
the American government’s image
can’t burn more poisonously,
a means of further obliterating
its charred blood and shit stained reputation
looms on the horizon.
The state sanctioned murder of Julian Assange
is nigh.

Trump’s limbo stick is so low
Rubber Man mistook it for the skirting board.
Even the rats,
with their collapsible skeletons,
can’t fathom how he slips beneath it.
Can the 45th best president of the United States,
maintain his ranking until 2020?
Dig up Richard Nixon
and he’s bound to slip to forty sixth.

The state sanctioned murder of Assange
is nigh.
To rescue him from extradition,
you must fund his legal magician.
Head to wikileaks.shop,
to dynamite destiny.
N/A F.B.I, C.I.A, N.S.A,
peaceful justice,
not the lit wick of doomsday.

Blood for Fuel

Blood for fuel, a generation of genocide,
blood for fuel, freedom and hell collide.

During World War Two, the East Timorese
were as brave as mice wrestling pythons,
in support of Aussie guerrilla forces
combatting the Japanese.
If future Australian governments
showed their gratitude,
a stoned chimp invented trigonometry,
shortly after Nigeria
sent Sputnik to the surface of Mercury.

Blood for fuel, a generation of genocide,
blood for fuel, freedom and hell collide.

In 75,’ Radio Kupang
was about as subtle as the big bang,
with suggestive bursts of machine fire.
Before the invasion,
Indonesian codes were rendered as readable,
as Goldilocks and the Three Bears.
To Suharto’s delight,
the U.S gave the green light
for Indonesian forces to shoot, bomb
and napalm their way through
a third of the East Timorese population.

Blood for fuel, a generation of genocide,
blood for fuel, freedom and hell collide.

Successive Australian governments knew the story
like a pimp knows his way around a brothel.
They felt stealing Timor Gap oil
was more worth their toil
than aiding our south east Asian little brother.
East Timor was declared too poor for independence.
That’s as ironic as a Pol Pot memorial peace prize,
as absurd as Trump claiming the Pulitzer Prize.
It’s a story as nauseating
as snorting a gram of uranium.

Blood for fuel, a generation of genocide,
blood for fuel, freedom and hell collide.

 

Soren Sarin Siren, the Soapbox Superstar

Dwite the Sprite Knight, was surprised to see Alan the Asbestosis sufferer, rocketing along, on his Pride Pathfinder 140XL, at a footpath blistering twenty kilometres per hour. Who, or what, was he fleeing? The Pride Pathfinder was no match for the acceleration of Dwite’s 1968 Schwinn Stingray. That beast truly was the chieftain of the footpath.

“Why are you crying Alan, what happened?”

“Soren Sarin Siren, the Soap Box Superstar, said I’m not entitled to compensation.” Allan briefed Dwite on what to expect.

“Don’t worry.
I’ll mail that NAZI admirers mouth to the waste transit station of the Holocaust Museum. On second thoughts, they might think that’s the sick joke
of a deranged psychopath, so I’ll destroy him in a debate instead.”

“Fuck him up, hit him with your thirteen pun combination Dwite” Alan, the Asbestosis sufferer roared, as they closed in on their quarry; who was busy admonishing Cindy
the sexual harassment suit litigant, who’d had the audacity to whine about wine aficionados sleazy slurs. When he saw Dwite he froze in panic.

“Soren Sarin Siren, the Soap Box Superstar, I presume. You baffling, bantering buffoon, I am your angel of doom. Soren, you’ve claimed that Vlad Enterprises shouldn’t have to compensate asbestosis sufferers, who are terminally ill thanks to Thames Vlad’s products. Soren, your mind is a lopsided labyrinth, designed by an idiot, that has been warped by the summer heat and cracked in the cold, outside the library. You’ve never been in there have you. Revisiting your argument is like watching an Ed Wood movie twice. Who is Ed Wood? Ed is to directing movies what Craig Mclouglin is to comedy.
There are worse things in life though and asbestosis is one of them.

Let’s address your argument in support of Vlad Enterprises, if you could call it an argument. It’s like calling a billy cart a sports car, only less convcincing. According to you, expecting Thames Vlad Enterprises, to compensate terminally ill asbestosis victims, from the twentieth century, is like expecting the new owner of a fish and chip shop to compensate food poisoning victims, under the old management. Strangely, I’ve never heard this argument, from a representative of Vlad Enterprises. Soren, you should chair one of their think tanks. If Vlad Enterprises isn’t responsible, why did their shareholders vote in favour of billions of dollars of compensation? Oh, a poor little corporation bullied by the law and disabled pensioners, such a sad and famaliar tale.

Thanks to fibro, Vlad enterprises has more cash in their coffers than Scrooge McDuck. Is the new owner of your analogical fish and chip shop, benefiting from mountains of money, stemming from isolated incidents of food poisoning? How about you take your legal and ethical fiction and hide it in one of the volcanic pimples exploding from your arse. Soren, you are to nudist beaches what Donald Trump is to MENSA…